John
by Shortyfry
Summary: Breathe. That's what he told himself. Just breathe. It would all work out in the end...right?


**WARNING: Attempted suicide in here, and a lot of angst. Careful! -Shortyfry**

Breathe. In. _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix._ Out. _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix._

John cried out as some specter of pain sliced its blade into his stomach. His spine curled inwards abruptly, and he groaned as more agony washed over him. It wasn't physical, but his mental state was transforming it to be such. He abandoned all thoughts of counting in French and instead welcomed the pain. Maybe if he did that, it would go away sooner.

He yanked his long hair—

 _A looming figure stood above John, who, dazed, lay on the cold hard pavement. Mist swirled around the two. They were concealed behind the portables of the school, where no other kids usually hung out, for fear of getting in trouble with the recess duties. The figure grinned, his beady eyes focusing in on John. He started a stream of insults, but John didn't quite catch them. After a while, the boy became bored with useless insults, and seized John's ankle._

 _John screamed as the bully started pulling him. He scrambled for purchase, anything to stop the dragging across the pavement, but he found nothing to grasp onto. The feeling of utter helplessness consumed him, and he wailed a strange screech, one that had risen from his chest._

 _Hold it together, hold it together, HOLDITTOGETHER—_

John smiled sarcastically at the ceiling, his eyes narrowing in a glare. What had he done to deserve this? What had he done? Nothing! He had done absolutely nothing! He bit his lip, letting out a string of curse words. Nothing? He laughed somewhat hysterically. Nothing?! He was a sorry excuse for a human being. Everyone hated him. No one could possibly love him. No one in their right mind would.

The cold tile of the bathroom floor came up to meet him as he crashed against it—

 _"I just need to talk to Philip," John pleaded, narrowing his eyes at the guy who stood in between the two. Philip might as well had been his doppelgänger: he was the exact same, except without the freckles. Philip was John's friend; they were practically connected at the hip. One couldn't live without the other._

 _The guy snorted. "As if I'd let_ you _talk to him." He adjusted his stance as the smaller boy tried to get around him._

 _John's eyes met Philip's. "Come on, Philip, just for a moment. I need to talk to you about something. Please."_

 _The other boy—John's_ friend _—shook his head minutely, his gaze casting to the ground in shame. At first, John was disbelieving. Did Philip just—? The freckled boy tried to be rational. There had to be a reason for his betrayal. Something deeper. Philip wouldn't outright betray John for no reason. Right? But then the cold fingers of doubt began to take ahold of him. There was more, wasn't there?_

 _Philip hated John. Philip had hated John from the start. That must've been why. John's heart felt heavy in his chest, his mind spinning. If Philip, one of the kindest person in their grade, hated him, that must mean the rest of the grade hated him. They all hated him! They hated him for what he was, what kind of person he was, they hated him, they hated him, they'll never stop hating him until he drops dead and is buried six feet under. They might even continue to hate him then. Oh, God._

 _"Scram," the guy in front of John said, another name slipping out of his mouth. Then another. Soon, the rest of his little band started joining in, calling John names. John shrunk underneath their taunts, desperately searching for a way out._

 _He let out an unearthly howl, and suddenly he was upon them, clawing for a way out, punching and kicking and using whatever means necessary to get out, to_ escape _to light—to freedom! But they soon trapped him on all sides, and freedom was closing, the light was gone, he couldn't get out, he was trapped, trapped forever, and he would never escape from the endless pain and agony and—_

John smacked his head against the cabinets, not even minding the pain. He scowled. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. He opened a drawer in a rush, pulling out a pair of silver scissors. That would be enough. He was satisfied. He sat back on the ground, trying to keep up a calm facade as he opened the scissors, aiming for his right thigh—

 _John was okay. At least, that's what he told himself._

 _He finally, somehow, obtained a friend. And he thought that friend didn't hate him. He thought. He couldn't quite trust the friend yet._

 _But she had poured her life, her troubles, her worries into John, and he hadn't given anything back. He was used to staying up late, around midnight, comforting her in any way that he could. He would draw for her, draw her pictures of what could've been, what she wished for. She had a crush on a boy in school, but she knew it was hopeless. John drew the boy with her, together, happy. She had loved it._

 _She continued to request things for him to draw. He drew her with an elf, painted a story of a difficult decision, and even sketched a piece that she had requested: John as a guardian angel. He was happy with her. He loved her, platonically. They were friends. They knew each other. Well, John knew her. She didn't truly know him. He wasn't content with that._

 _He could trust her._

 _One night, he gathered the courage to spill a secret to her. He wrote out his emotions, how he wasn't sure whether or not he could keep it together. He was scared, and alone, and afraid, and he had just realized it. He waited her response, in great trepidation. She didn't respond._

 _A week passed, and she didn't respond._

 _Panic seized him, as he knew she had nearly nightly anxiety attacks. Was she ignoring him now? Did she hate him for who he was?_

 _That's what it was._

 _She hated him._

 _She was no different._

 _His heart wrenched again, this time with a deeper pain than he would have thought possible. Nothing had changed. He was still John. The John that everyone hated, no one loved, no one spared a glance to. What was he thinking? He wasn't thinking. He cried until there were no more tears left to cry; and even then, he cried._

Blood trickled down his legs, staining the floor crimson. The pain made him focus. Breathe. In. _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix._ Out. _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix._

Panic seized him again. He wasn't focusing. His thoughts spiraled into an abyss, he couldn't think, all he could do was _do_ , and he dug the scissors deeper into his flesh, ripping apart the muscle. He cried out in agony, but agony was all he had known, and all he was to know. He deserved the pain. He deserved the agony, the terrible drawn out suffering, the torture. He deserved all of it. He was hated.

He was hated, and he knew it. He knew it all along.

How would anyone like him in the slightest? How _could_ anyone? How could anyone care for him?

What an absurd thought.

Caring.

He dug the scissors deeper, eliciting a strangled cry—

 _An offhand comment from a faceless, nameless individual. John had finally settled in and come to terms with himself. He distanced himself from everyone. He couldn't handle facing them. He had to stay apart, otherwise he'd hurt others around him. That's what he said, but truly, he was afraid of being hurt again. He was terrified._

 _They never noticed, too caught up in everything. They never noticed how he flinched when they came at him too suddenly, how he fell silent when a small comment was made about him. No one noticed. No one cared. Who in their right mind would spare a second glance for John? No one._

 _Suddenly, a comment came his way. He was alone, with an acquaintance. He had grown fond of her as a friend, even though she was usually absorbed in her phone, or what was trending. She was popular, but she was nice, for the most part. She was slightly hypocritical and judgmental, but he could deal with that. He usually let her do all the talking, with small interjections on his part._

 _They were walking, and all it took was one comment. One comment about John, one negative thing that overstepped their boundaries. They were just joking around, and she took a stab at him verbally. Useless. She had called him useless. He was useless. He turned to her, his eyes wide._

 _"W-What?" he stammered, inwardly hitting himself for sounding so stupid. So thick. So…_ useless. _Useless. That was a good word for him, as much as he didn't want to admit it. Hearing it from_ her, _though…_

 _"You can take it two ways, you know," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "What? What's wrong?"_

 _John couldn't disguise the hurt in his eyes. He knew she recognized it. She_ knew _he was hurt. She shrugged and continued walking._

 _She didn't even apologize._

 _She didn't make up for what she had said._

 _She had betrayed him._

 _He continued walking, steadily ahead of her. If she tried to catch up, he would walk faster. He had to get to his house as quickly as he could. The last bit of the walk was in a tense silence. Whenever she tried to break it, he would shrug off her attempts at conversation as if it didn't matter._

 _Later, in the shower, he couldn't help but think_ useless, useless, useless, _over and over again. Blood splattered the shower curtain._

It still stained the curtain. John was a mess. He had abandoned the scissors, and instead he lay on the floor, sobs wracking his body. Tears streamed unchecked down his face. Useless. Useless. Useless. Hated. Stupid. Pain. Endless. Agony.

There was a way to stop it.

He could stop it.

It would be simple. All he had to do was walk out onto the street when the pedestrian signal wasn't on.

John would be gone. Just like that. The cause of so much hate, vanished in an instant. People would smile. They would still hate him, sure, but he'd be gone, and they'd be happy. They'd be happy without John.

Almost unconsciously, he got up and twisted the doorknob of the bathroom door. He didn't care that there was blood streaming down his legs. He didn't care about the deep gashes in his quadriceps and arms. He didn't care about the way his matted hair fell around his ghostly face, into his sunken eyes. He just wanted it to end. All of it. To come to an end.

As if in a daze, he had somehow gotten down the stairs. He stopped at his computer for a moment. It was up and running, and three e-mails from work blared on his screen. Irrelevant.

But what was relevant…

He quickly took a few minutes to type something up before sending it to three people, each person with a different name, a different face, and each person with a different kind of hate towards John. He hoped what he had sent satisfied them. No, they could never be satisfied. He stood.

He opened the door to the outside world, where it was barely dusk. The sun was setting, the sky becoming blood red. He always liked the sunset. It was his favorite part of the day. He lifted his hand into the sun, where the orange outlined it.

The four way intersection was busy, filled with cars and people. He started to walk towards it lethargically. So simple. So quick. He was leaving a trail of red from his house, but he didn't care. It would all be gone soon. John himself would be gone soon.

He found himself sprinting into the middle of the intersection. He made it to the middle, where he had to only wait a few seconds. A truck from behind came at him, too quickly—it was in this very moment that John regretted his decision. He could make things better! He could make people not hate him! He let loose another animalistic wail, all the terror he had built up over the years letting loose in one quick sound. Screams of pedestrians filled his ears, ringing in his head, blending with his own voice.

The truck's horn blared as the driver tried desperately to swerve, but it was too late, John knew it, he was going to die, and there was nothing anyone could do about it, he was—

Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a force barreled into his side, tossing him into the next lane. His scream was cut off abruptly as the air was knocked out of him, the truck zooming past, just grazing the soles of his shoes. John shot to his feet, unsteady. He gasped for air, his chest heaving up and down. It was as if everything around him had frozen; the cars made no noise, the bystanders around him were rooted to their places, their eyes wide with disbelief.

John looked into the dark brown eyes of his savior, astonishment rendering him speechless. Someone saved him. Someone, a stranger, thought he was worth something. Worth enough to risk his life for. John couldn't tear his eyes from the one who had saved him.

"Let's get out of the road," the other said, taking John's arm gently. He guided him over to the sidewalk, where he shooed away those who stood watching in shock. Everything was still strangely muted to John's ears. The panic he had felt earlier had all but dissipated; he had been given a second chance at life. He had been given a second chance!

His heart lifted at the thought. Someone as _useless_ , as _hated,_ as _stupid_ as John had been given a second chance. All because of one boy.

"Are you okay?" the one who had rescued him questioned, his eyes darting around John's figure, checking him over for injuries. The boy let out a small hiss of air between his teeth when he saw where John had hurt himself. He grinned grimly at John, sending John's thoughts into a panic.

He had _seen_ what John had done to himself—he had to hate him now. The nameless person who rescued him must despise him now. He had to think of John as not worthy to be saved, now. John hung his head in shame. Second chance? He was only given a second chance because his savior didn't know who he was, or what he did to himself.

"Hey, look at me," the stranger said gently, tilting John's head up with one finger and forcing him to look him in the eye. "That's all right. See? I've got them too." The stranger quickly rolled a sleeve up, displaying knife marks from where he himself had cut into the skin. John gasped. There were more like him. He wasn't alone. He wasn't alone. _He wasn't alone._

At the moment, that's all that mattered.

"John Laurens," he choked out, his eyes meeting the stranger's. But suddenly, the boy didn't feel like a stranger to John. He was an old friend. John knew him.

A small smirk lit up the other's face. Beautiful. The boy reached out a hand to John, who was still sitting on the pavement. The pavement that didn't seem to be as cold anymore. John took the boy's hand. The boy heaved John to his feet. John stared long and deep into the boy's eyes. They were flawed, just like John's; in the irises contained heartbreak, love, compassion, determination, sadness, brokenness—all combined into one bittersweet emotion John couldn't find a name to. It was beautiful. The boy standing before John was beautiful. Life was beautiful. The boy opened his mouth, responding with his own name, which was just as beautiful.

"Alexander Hamilton."

Alexander's smile was better than all the sunsets in the world combined.

Bonus (Alex):

Alex was bent over the sink, his hair pulled up into a tight ponytail. The water was running, and he was breathing deeply in a technique John had taught him. He took a damp washcloth and laid it on the back of his neck, hoping it would help him calm down a bit. But how could he?

George King and Samuel Seabury had cornered him after the debate club session, alone. John had to leave early to pick Lafayette and Hercules from the stables. Lafayette had gotten bucked off of a very large and very green draft horse. The Frenchman had been trying to get the horse used to the saddle. It was kind of funny, if not for the fact that he had to rush off to the hospital only moments later.

Alex wanted badly to go with John and see if he was all right; but a seemingly timed outburst from Jefferson anchored him. The Virginian had said something about Alex's parentage, and Alex had exploded in the debate room. The debate turned into something else, something that involved trying to insult one another to gain higher ground. At one point, Alex was even tempted to stand on the table.

After Washington intervened and closed the meeting, Alex had walked out of the doors, alone. There, the two had jumped him, clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle his shout of surprise. They dragged him off to the side of the building. No one knew he was there. No one knew what happened there.

 _"Nobody needs to know"_ were Seabury's exact words.

They had Alex on the ground, and they relentlessly kicked and hit any place on him they could. Alex's cries were met with silence; no one knew they were there. No one knew what was happening. Until, finally, someone happened to walk out of the building and save Alexander before his injuries got too bad.

That someone simply _had_ to be Thomas Jefferson.

Surprisingly, Madison wasn't trailing behind Jefferson at that time. The Virginian saw what was happening and in seconds flat forced George King off of Alexander with a harsh uppercut, followed by a well-placed roundhouse. By the time Seabury noticed that his partner was gone, it was too late. Jefferson smacked Seabury's head with a sickening crunch against the brick wall. They both crumpled to the ground.

"Hamilton," Jefferson had said, his voice, for once, dripping with something else other than annoyance. Was that _pity_? "Get up."

When Alex wouldn't—couldn't, more like—get up, Jefferson reached down and heaved him to his feet. Alex teetered unsteadily, his balance off, but quickly grabbed the side of the wall. He couldn't bring himself to look Jefferson in the eye. Instead, he had started to stumble off to his car.

"Hamilton," Jefferson repeated, stopping him in his tracks. Alex turned, his eyes narrowed both in hostility and pain. In a rare show of concern, he said, "Grab a taxi or something, okay? Go to the hospital."

"I'll be fine," Alex hissed back, not meeting Jefferson's eyes. It was humiliating enough to be at the mercy of King and Seabury, but to be rescued by Jefferson? If the events that occurred there leaked out, his reputation would be ruined.

Somehow Alex stumbled out of Jefferson's view, to the other side of the building. He crumpled against the side, trying to hold down an emotion he couldn't put a name to. It all came back in a rush—how Seabury and King had him down, how he was _helpless…_ He choked on seemingly nothing, and that's when the floodgates broke. He wasn't crying, no. But he was shaking uncontrollably, unable to quell the tremors wracking his body. He gasped for air, his lungs suddenly closing up. The first thing to go was his vision.

He heard a brief shout of his name before his hearing went.

The third thing to go was connection to the world.

His thoughts started spiraling into nothing. He couldn't form coherent sentences. He was barely aware of being jostled around, someone from the outside, from the _world_ interacting with him somehow. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

He had had a panic attack on the side of the building, of which he was revisiting while hunched over the sink. Alex took to breathing like John again, and just the mere thought of John comforted him. He sighed deeply, sitting back. The water was still running, and their water bill would probably skyrocket, but it didn't matter to Alex at the moment. He was over the panic. It wouldn't come back, not for a while. Hopefully. If he had two panic attacks in one day, the second was generally far worse than the first. He was glad he was home, where almost nothing could trigger them.

This was where he was wrong.

He turned the water off and got up, walking out of the bathroom and into his and John's shared room. John wasn't back from the hospital yet—and it crossed Alex's mind that he should visit. But then again, John had taken the only car they owned, and the hospital was a good hour's walk from their apartment.

Rain began to make small _pitter patter_ sounds on the roof, calming Alex to an extent. Once, as a child, he feared the rain; now, he welcomed it. Well, the rain at least. Whenever a thunder and lightning storm rolled in, he usually had another anxiety attack. He was grateful that it was no longer triggered by just rain, otherwise he'd be having the attacks practically every other day.

He glanced outside the window, where it was gray and foggy. If there were no clouds, the sun would be low in the eastern sky.

He flopped onto the bed ungracefully, not minding that he was wearing his day clothes. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. He'd rest for a few minutes, then get back to work on an article for the _New York Times_ —

—he sat bolt upright out of bed, his heart pounding. The room was dark, as the sun had set. Rain pounded at the glass in the window, the sound from calming to harsh. Hurriedly, Alex whipped out his phone with shaking hands—he tried to brush it off as the cold—and checked the weather app. No sign of a thunderstorm. Setting the phone aside, he laid back down on the bedsheets, not quite relaxed but less tense than he was moments before.

Until, of course, the lightning flashed outside.

As soon as the bright light illuminated the room, Alexander abruptly sat upright again. He was frozen, like a deer in the headlights. It was almost half a minute in this position before the thunder sounded, loud and threatening.

Alex stopped breathing.

The thunder crashed into his mind, forcing it into overdrive. It was sudden. His heart rate picked up marginally then suddenly jumped up to a swifter speed. He tried to get air into his lungs, but it was as if they were caving in. Oh, God! He couldn't breathe! His mind started going into panic, his thoughts blurring together.

Anxiety took over, and he couldn't help the swelling waves of panic overcoming him. He let out a small whimper, and lightning flashed once more. The whimper turned into a series of yelps, crazed animal-like yelps that escaped his mouth. He flailed on the bed, searching for something to grasp onto, anything, but there was nothing. Nothing to anchor him to the world.

" _Mamá_!" he suddenly screamed childishly. He didn't care. He was falling into a headspace. His vision blurred. He was back in Nevis, as a little boy. No one was with him. The hurricane raged around him, demolishing everything in its path. People nearby were swept away in a matter of nanoseconds—one moment they were there, the next, they were gone.

Shielding his eyes against the torrent of rain, he screeched into the abyss, " _Mamá_!" He turned and saw _her_ , her skirts flying wildly in the wind. She reached out a hand towards Alex. Overjoyed, he reached towards her, but she was just out of reach. Frowning now, he took a step towards her, but she was being pushed farther away by some unseeable force. He heard her scream out his name, and he lunged towards her.

But just like that, his _mamá_ was gone.

The hurricane continued to rage around him.

" _Mamá_ …" his voice trailed off.

Suddenly, the hurricane was holding him, cradling him. For some reason, it was warm, not cold like how Alex had expected. He screeched and struggled mightily to free himself from the hurricane's grasp, but it just held him closer. The winds around him slowed, the water receded slightly. He still flailed to get free, but the hurricane just held him tighter.

It was the eye of the hurricane.

Slowly, slowly, he realized the eye wasn't going away. The eye was protecting him. He was safe.

But his _mamá_ was gone. Swept away by the hurricane.

Before he could stop them, tears began to flow down his cheeks. He sobbed into the hurricane, turning into it, welcoming it. The hurricane gently caressed his back, the winds murmuring small words of comfort and love. He sighed, content, until the thunder rumbled again in the distance.

Suddenly, he was back in the apartment room, surrounded by a blanket of darkness. He blinked a few times, terror blotting out his vision. He was turned into something warm, something that limited his breathing slightly. But he felt a heartbeat underneath him, slow and steady. Without thinking about it, he started breathing along with the person holding him.

"It's okay," the person said, running fingers through Alex's hair, which had somehow come out of the ponytail in his attack. "Shh. I'm here now. Alex. Alexander. It's okay. _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf._ "

It was a tune Alex knew well—it was John. John was singing. And then he was silent. He was waiting for a response from Alex. In a scratchy voice, Alex sung, " _Quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf._ "

"Good," John praised him, drawing him closer to his chest. To safety. " _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf._ " This time, the notes were descending, falling into a bit of a minor scale at the very end.

Focusing on the notes, Alex breathed, " _Sept huit neuf_." Instead of John's minor scale, he opted for ascending notes, not following the melody. It was something they enjoyed joking about—Alex would change the melody every time, warping it into his own.

This time, John didn't try to correct Alex. He just brought his head closer to his chest. Alex felt the familiar feeling of sleep tug at the corners of his mind, and he let it take him. He fell asleep, surrounded by the eye of the hurricane, in John's warm embrace.


End file.
